


Selfish Prayers, That We May Carry On

by Saltwish



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 12:28:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2388224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saltwish/pseuds/Saltwish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"They are both of them brittle and scarred. Nothing is forgotten, nor forgiven."</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The one where Erwin does not have to be strong, and Eren's heart is not as young as his body, and neither of them remember what it means to be whole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Selfish Prayers, That We May Carry On

**Author's Note:**

> A self-indulgent hurt/comfort piece. Canon divergent- Eren is 17 and those of you who know Erwin's manga spoilers will note that I did not use them here. I wanted an image of the Scouting Legion carrying on, time passing, and people wearing thin under the strain. Here's the result. No direct smut, implied themes, etc.

The sun is setting and the hue of its light paints the walls and floor of his office red through closed glass windows. It has been more years than he can remember since the color was merely beautiful and not a grim reminder of the spilled blood seen many times; long enough, at least, that he can no longer summon even a curl of his stomach in response to the sight. Even still, blue eyes linger, flat and distracted, unable to disengage from overlapping scenes of battlefields and city streets alike.

The light tap of knuckles on his office door is neither a surprise nor an expected sound. As the Commander, people come in and out of his office many times through the day, for paperwork or orders, for conversation when times are restful and with white-knuckle grips on emergency missives when they are not. Years of holding this branch of the military together by the skin of his teeth and the edges of two swords have taught him to read small inflections into everything, mind refusing to silence its tireless analysis of the world around them; how hard the knock was versus how soft, whether it came with speed or hesitance, how much urgency was carried in the bid for entrance. His experience is vast in how to weather any news as it comes, for good or ill of his plans, his people; even so, the twitch of anxious nerves never seems to be worn out of him, as if there is any tragedy left, any failure that could surprise him at this point.

His silence has stretched too long and the door is opening, a familiar shape looking in to find him. Messy brown hair never combed straight, eyes too sharp to miss much, too world-weary to be surprised by what they found. Their color is a little different every day, and Erwin has learned to read into that, as well. Today they are almost blue, so little green remaining, and dark from the pupil out to a paler rim; a hard day, then.

"Eren," he says in greeting, the work tired and heavy on his tongue. It both is and is not the boy's fault that it comes out that way, pretense never falling as easy from his mouth as it should. Erwin shifts, distracted from looking at the blood-red walls of his office to the familiar, shifting form of the soldier closing the door behind him.

The word 'boy' hardly fits anymore, a thoughtless tribute to counted-out years instead of human reality. Innocence is something that has not dwelt in those heavy eyes for as long as Erwin as looked into them. There is nothing of childhood in the lean face and tightly coiled body, one that moves with years of combat beaten into the muscle and carries such weight on its shoulders. There is no reason to put on the mask of pitiless, omnipotent leader when Eren is in his office; they both know the soldier's role in battle too well to bother with it.

Eren walks over quietly, measured footsteps on hardwood floors, and stands by the desk a moment. Eyes hardened to blue flick over red-stained walls, over the tired slump of Erwin's shoulders. Without questioning, without reprimand, the young soldier sighs, walks further across the floor; hands scarred by years of biting lift to tug the curtains closed against the blood-red light.

The room is darker now, still reddish orange but muted, somehow safe in the insulation of shadows; a rush of breath leaves his lungs, relief and guilt in equal measure as Erwin's head lowers to the desk. With so many years between their births, it must seem strange, the wordless understanding between them; Erwin has long ceased questioning it. Beings of war, both of them, pared down and worn away, surviving and slogging onward when nothing is left but the concept of protecting who and what matters for another day, another month, another year. They understand each other, cut from the same cloth, and it is restful as the lean young man with old, old eyes walks back to Erwin's desk and sits on the edge. The brush of one knee against his shoulder is enough prompt to turn his head but not lift it, tired eyes finding Eren's and holding.

 _Thank you_ , his eyes say when his voice does not. Eren's own soften, the room too dark to confirm Erwin's hope that a little more green might be showing in their depths; he does not have to imagine the hand, however, calloused and fever-warm as it settles on his nape. Strong fingers begin digging gently into the knots of tension there, like they always do, pushing slow and persistent through knotted muscle until Erwin groans, the sound rough and low in his chest.

Both of them are monsters clothed in human skin, one literal and one figurative. Both of them are leaders that lose pieces of themselves along with their people, following the principle of sacrificing what matters most for the sake of what must be done, what no one else can do. It's a small, selfish thing, this habit of theirs, one fed by the benefit each of them takes from it. Eren doesn't speak, treasures the understanding silence as he is allowed to nurture, to soothe with what little humanity he has left after years of battle and loss, of taking as many human lives as Titan kills and then surpassing that number. A lieutenant with his own squad to keep secrets from, people that fear him as much as they trust him, but here there is still someone that bares their throat without hesitation, offering trust not from ignorance but from full knowledge of what and who Eren is. Erwin knows, and counts himself no better; his plans, his schemes, his knowing sacrifices no less bestial than the bloody maw of the Titan his counterpart can become.

They are both of them brittle and scarred. Nothing is forgotten, nor forgiven. The lift of Erwin's head after long moments is slow, the languid familiarity between their eyes no less tender for the learned hardness to their faces. There is room in his chair, just barely, for the muscled length of thighs that move to grip his hips, securing the balance of the form in his lap, Eren's hands with their rough skin and gentle touch brushing up the sides of his neck. They don't speak, don't ask for the things that they need; strong arms crossed over the curve of Eren's back, fingers brushing across the different lengths of Erwin's hair. It's too early to invest time in more than this, both of them carrying duties still to finish reports, to eat, to give final orders to their men. The officer's hall will be filled with voices and questions that none of them can answer but somehow must face regardless. For now, this is enough; the comfort of another body near, the press of Erwin's mouth on Eren's pulse. A tiny prayer for the heart inside this body that it keeps beating a little longer, the only benediction that soldiers have left to give after long enough behind a sword.

Later, when sleep does not come, there might be more. Words, in short clipped strings and unsteady chunks of memory and guilt and admission of weakness. There will be tighter grips, hands braced on bare skin, spines curved in compliment to each other's bodies as memories are temporarily displaced with intimacy and vulnerability and  _alive, alive, we are alive together_  and  _you are far enough inside of me to touch my heartbeat_  and  _you at least know I am nothing but a man making too many mistakes_  and  _thank you for not leaving when my fangs cut too sharply in our kisses._

Later, all of it later, fingers digging in with the same blank desperation as always, saying without voice,  _it will probably be the last time we are both alive for this, so please don't forget me_. For now, there is only the safety found in the cradle of Eren's arms around his head, his weight on Erwin's lap; a world-weary soldier in the body of a boy offering himself as a safe place to hide, until the blood-red wash of the dying sun finally slips beyond the trees and they both are strong enough to put their masks on again.


End file.
